


Like Oil and Water

by butterflyfeathers



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Stiles Stilinski, Blood, Caring Derek Hale, Drinking, Fighting, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Violence, Stiles Stilinski is Eighteen Years Old, gun violence but only for a minute, m/m - Freeform, smut later on?, sterek, void!stiles mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-07-11 23:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyfeathers/pseuds/butterflyfeathers
Summary: In which Stiles was kidnapped, and found after three terrible weeks, but isn't quite the same. Nobody seems to really notice, mostly because he won't let them near him, except the one who found him: Derek Hale.





	1. Prologue

Stiles woke, shaking his father’s hands off his shoulders, his throat feeling tight and his whole body damp with sweat. His heartbeat racing, he knew he must have been screaming a few seconds ago, though he couldn’t now recall it. 

His dad moved away from him swiftly, conceding to instead sit at the foot of his son’s bed, as Stiles shrank into himself at the head— trembling and breathing quickly. He’d learned at least that the best he could do was be silent and wait patiently until Stiles was ready to be the first to speak. This sometimes took an hour or more, if he ever did. 

After about ten minutes of nervous silence, Stiles could feel his heart slow, not quite even— though it never was these days— and his breathing become less sporadic. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled finally, clutching his knees to his chest and feeling exhausted. 

“You don’t have to be, Stiles. Never,” his dad replied, soft but certain. 

Stiles knew his tone should be a comfort, but it only made him feel worse, like more of a burden upon his father’s life; that he had to be so careful in the way he spoke to him, like a small child. Though he admittedly felt no more durable than one himself these days. 

“Do you want me to call Scott?” His dad asked tentatively after a moment. 

“No!” Stiles blurted, suddenly, and immediately his stomach felt full of rocks at his own reaction. 

He should want to call Scott. His best friend. Of course, he should, and he could quite possibly help too if Stiles would let him. He never would dare to think Scott wouldn’t want to. But Scott helps everybody. For some reason, since he was bitten, he felt like it was his duty to, and Stiles couldn’t bear putting himself on that list for Scott. If anything, Stiles should be the one person always helping Scott instead. 

He could never tell him how bad it’d been lately. How the night terrors had come back, almost worse than when the Nogitsune had first gotten to him; how he’d been having panic attacks again, just like after his mom had died. How his mouth constantly felt like he was chewing sand, how his hands always shook, and how he never stopped looking over his shoulder, no matter how safe he knew himself to be. 

Everyone he knew and loved had already spent so much time worrying about him, looking for him, crying over him during those three weeks that he’d been gone that he almost physically couldn’t allow himself to put up any front other than that of absolutely fine. 

Except, it seemed, around one person and one person only. Around them, he almost couldn’t physically act fine at all. Something about them always broke him down, and therefore he avoided them like oil and water. That person being the one who had finally found him, even when his own father, the Sheriff, couldn’t: Derek Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this whole fic might be a little short overall, and the chapters most likely will be relatively too since i don't have a TON of time to write. however, i really hope you enjoy and thanks a million for reading thus far!


	2. Beginning of a New End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: SOME MILD VIOLENCE, AND A GOOD BIT OF BLOOD/INJURY/BROKEN BONE MENTION
> 
> IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THAT I WILL PUT AT THE END A BRIEF, LESS GRAPHIC SUMMARY WITH SPOILERS OF WHAT HAPPENED, IF YOU DON'T MIND, READ ON AND IGNORE THE CHAPTER NOTES AT THE END.

The night Stiles was found was simultaneously the best and the worst of his life, and the weeks that followed were no different. 

He’d heard the telltale crash of splintering wooden door hinges in the cabin above the damp basement he was being held in. Lying in a pool of his own blood and having convinced himself at that point that not even the werewolves were going to be able to find him, he hadn’t allowed himself to believe that the fighting going on above his head was in his name. 

Even when the room grew silent with a final thud, and he could hear footsteps descending downwards towards the basement door, Stiles was sure it was them coming back to chide him for something he had or hadn’t done, he didn’t know anymore and probably leave a few more marks somewhere. 

It wasn’t until the door was suddenly kicked down with a loud crash, completely off its hinges, —knocking over the video camera that they’d been using to send Stiles’ loved ones videos of them hurting him in an attempt to get the names of everyone in Scott’s pack that Stiles refused to give them—, and Derek came barreling through the decimated frame, covered in blood that was scarcely his own, that Stiles allowed himself to even slightly believe he was freed. 

“Stiles?!” Was the first thing Derek had said, stopping in his tracks, surveying the scene. 

“What, too pretty to believe it?” Stiles had tried to quip, though only part of it fell from his lips, the rest drowned out in the blood that dripped from his mouth. He was smart enough to know that it’d meant internal bleeding for at least six days. 

“Oh my God, Stiles,” Derek shook his head, snapping out of his shock. “Holy shit, I didn’t know it was you. I just smelled the blood and I knew something was wrong and— Jesus, Stiles…what’d they do to you?” 

He approached Stiles cautiously, surveying where he was shackled with heavy, cast-iron chains that electrified when touched, to at least thirsty-inch thick steel he thought, though he couldn’t be positive, of course. In better words, werewolf-proof, and purposely so. Derek crouched down in front of him, and Stiles could barely meet his eyes. Though when he did, he was surprised to see not sympathy, as he’d expected, but instead determination. 

“Isselectrocuted,” Stiles slurred, spitting some of the blood out of his mouth off to the side.

“I see that,” Derek replied thoughtfully. “I’m going to have to break your thumbs.” 

“What? Why?” Stiles sat forward slightly, his whole body aching when he did. He wasn’t sure why with all the many broken bones he must already have, two broken thumbs seemed remotely as nerve-wracking as it did. 

“Well I’m pretty sure this place is at least partly made out of mountain ash, since I haven’t been able to shift, and my strength isn’t really all there so I don’t think I can break those restraints,” he replied, now the one that couldn’t meet Stiles’ eye. 

“But the fighting…” Stiles said, glancing upwards towards the cabin above him, then back down at Derek’s blood-soaked shirt and hands. 

“I would’ve thought you’d know by now that I don’t need werewolf strength to knock out a few low-life, stuck-in-the-past hunters, Stiles,” Derek said, grinning slightly. Though Stiles could see that it was more an attempt to ease Stiles’ nerves than to boast his own muscular prowess. 

Derek reached out to touch Stiles’ wrist, and Stiles shrank back at the motion, the chain pulling taut. Derek put his hands up immediately, rocking back on his heels. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek said carefully. “and you know I wouldn’t if I had any other option.” 

Stiles was taken aback by the gentleness in Derek’s voice. He was in fact far more accustomed to continuous death threats on his behalf, typically involving the ripping out of his throat in one gruesome way or another. Though on some level, perhaps, he’d always known the threats were all for not, especially since Scott would never forgive Derek should he follow through on any one of them. 

Stiles nodded but didn’t ease his demeanor at all. 

“Alright. This is gonna hurt, but it’ll be quick. Then I’ll do the other side,” Derek coaxed, taking Stiles’ rubbed-raw, bleeding left wrist in one hand, and the palm of his hand in the other, carefully avoiding the shackle. “Ready?” 

Stiles nodded again, squeezing his swollen eyes closed. With a sudden snap, he felt the bone that connected his thumb to his wrist crack with a shot of white-hot pain down his forearm. He let out a sharp yelp, but the pain of it subsided quickly compared to what he’d endured. When Derek let go of his hand, he felt his arm drop out of the shackle, limp in Derek’s hand from being in that position for however long it’d been. Derek set his arm to his side, and Stiles couldn’t help but relish the feeling of the blood in his veins finally rushing back down to his fingertips. 

“One down, one to go. You alright?” Derek said, pausing to look at Stiles’ face. 

“Just aces,” Stiles replied, spitting more of the thick metallic-y liquid from his mouth. 

“Great,” Derek replied, closing his hand around Stiles’ other wrist. “Then here we go again.” 

After repeating the same motion on the right side, Stiles finally had both of his arms back. Though pain ricochetted off of every corner of his whole body, being able to move them further than a few inches felt like greeting an old friend. 

“Can you walk?” Asked Derek, standing. 

Stiles looked around at his own legs, both of which he thought may have been broken at some point, and the sticky pool of deep crimson that surrounded him, and came to the same conclusion that Derek seemed to at the same time: most likely that was a no. 

“Carrying you it is, then,” he said, more matter-of-factly than Stiles cared for. 

Nevertheless, Derek bent down and slid one arm under Stiles’ knees and another around his waist and lifted him as easily as a rag doll; this sending bolts of sharp and dull pain up and down every inch of Stiles’ body, causing him to cry out. Derek looked at him worriedly but ignored the groans of pain as he began to walk with him in his arms out of the broken door frame and up the stairs into the cabin. 

Stiles looked around at the scene inside, recognizing the men lying on the floor beaten and battered, though some looking more knocked out than dead. 

“Don’t look, Stiles,” Derek said lowly. 

Stiles ignored him, purposely stealing another glance as the exited the house. 

Once outside, Stiles had to close his eyes against the beating sun. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror recently, but he could expect that he was practically translucent at this point, and the sudden exposure to the light swiftly brought on a pounding headache. Even so, upon feeling the fresh air and light breeze on his skin, he began to feel like a weight was being lifted off his shoulders. Began to allow himself to think about Scott, about Lydia, about his dad again, believe for the first time in what felt like an eternity that he was going to truly see them again, and soon. 

He let his eyes open a bit, and saw that they were drawing near Derek’s car, and could feel his heart flutter a bit as every hope he’d squashed down began to bubble up. But all of it plummeted suddenly along with his stomach when Derek stopped short as they both suddenly heard the telltale cock of a hunting rifle. 

“Stop right there! Put your hands where I can see ‘em!” A man yelled from behind them, and Stiles recognized it instantly. It was the ringleader of the hunters who’d taken him, and the one he’d called the Mastermind in his head in those first days when his brain had been constantly cycling through plans to escape. 

Derek turned slowly. The man was a few feet from them with a large hunting rifle aimed at Derek’s head, expectedly filled with wolfsbane-laced bullets. 

“Set the boy on the ground and put your hands up, wolfy,” he commanded. Derek did just that, slowly, Stiles wincing as he was placed on the ground, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“You must be a Hale,” the Mastermind continued, grinning as he goaded Derek, “you look like your mama, as I’m sure you’re aware. I never did get the pleasure of putting one of these in Ms. Talia Hale’s head, someone beat me to the punch. But all’s well that end’s well, I suppose.” 

Stiles could hear a low growl in Derek’s throat above him, but by looking at him there were no clear signs of his irritation beyond his typically foreboding expression. 

“And you,” the Mastermind turned his attention to Stiles, still grinning. “Going so soon? We were just starting to have fun.” 

Stiles’ could feel his pulse what felt like everywhere, his fingertips, behind his eyes. Rage filled him suddenly, looking at the man who’d inflicted so much pain upon him, still in such a position of power when Stiles had been so close to freedom. 

“Eat shit,” Stiles growled, spitting on the ground and forcing himself up onto his elbow despite the searing pain shooting all the way up to his jaw. “What’s wolfsbane gonna do to me, huh?” 

“Stiles…” Derek said lowly, warningly. But Stiles could barely hear him. 

“I’m human. Unlike you, you piece of garbage,” Stiles knew that most of what he was saying was slurred together and far less forceful than he wanted it to be, but he hardly cared less. 

“True,” the Mastermind said, grinning toothily. “But even if you are, a buckshot’s still a buckshot.” 

In one swift movement, he moved the gun to face Stiles and a shot rang out through the woods, echoing through the trees, accompanied by a loud shout from Derek. For a moment, Stiles’ vision was blurred in white, as what felt like the concentrated force of a mac truck slammed into his abdomen, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to crumple down off his elbow onto the ground. 

In a flurry of movement, he saw Derek leap over him and lunge at the man. Another shot rang out, hammering in Stiles’ ears. Derek flung his arm back momentarily as the bullet ripped through his shoulder and out the back, but he was already upon the man. He ripped the gun out of his hand, his nails already clawed, tossing it aside, and bringing his hand down to slash the man’s face. 

The man fell to the ground with a yell, and immediately tried to scramble up, but Derek was over him in a second. With one leg firmly on either side of the Mastermind’s body, the man looked up at Derek and held his arms up in a measly form of protection. Stiles watched through increasingly blurry vision as a fully-shifted Derek raised his hand high. Just as he brought it down to deliver what Stiles could only expect was the ending blow, Stiles’ vision went entirely black. 

Throughout the car ride, Stiles only regained consciousness here and there, each time at Derek’s voice, distant, but shouting at him to stay awake. Though he couldn’t imagine staying awake, his eyelids were far too heavy. In one of the moments that he could keep them propped open, he began to wonder where it was they were even headed. 

“mmwherearewegoing?” Stiles asked sleepily, everything was foggy and spinning slightly like perhaps none of it was real. 

“The hospital,” Derek answered, his voice sounded booming to Stiles’ ears. He suddenly noticed that Derek was holding out his arm, keeping a bunched up, bloody sweater firmly placed at Stiles’ abdomen, but his own shoulder was oozing dark liquid, too dark to be only blood. Wolfsbane.

“w-wait, whaboutyourarm,” Stiles said, trying to sit forward, but the pressure of Derek’s arm was too strong. 

“It’s fine, Stiles. I’ll fix it after we make sure you don’t get dead, okay?” His voice seemed almost nonchalant, but as he glanced rapidly from the road to Stiles and back again, worry was visible in his glowing eyes. 

“but…” Stiles began, but his eyelids felt too heavily again and he had no choice other than to let them slide closed. 

“Stiles? Stiles!” Derek's voice faded into oblivion as Stiles felt the car accelerate, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, it details how Stiles escaped capture and provides the reason that he was kidnapped was that the hunters who took him wanted the names of the people in Scott's pack. Derek finds him by accident since he smells blood in the woods, and rescues him from werewolf-proof confines by breaking his thumbs. It's uncertain whether he killed all the captors or not. It's told that Stiles tried to escape a few times early on. They're almost free when they're confronted by a guy who Stiles IDs as being the one who orchestrated the whole thing and who he calls the Mastermind. Both Stiles and Derek get shot by wolfsbane-laced bullets (though to Stiles they're just normal). Stiles in the abdomen and Derek in the shoulder, the chapter ends with them driving in Derek's car to the hospital.


	3. Windows and Realizations

In the following weeks while Stiles was in the hospital, the number one thing that he couldn’t stand, even beyond the constant hospital food, was how everybody looked at him. Like a puppy that’d been kicked. 

The night Derek brought him in, Stiles vaguely remembered everyone having rushed to his side at once. Stiles wasn’t sure how they’d all been alerted so quickly, but he expected that Derek had called sometime between dropping Stiles off in the emergency room and rushing off to the animal clinic. Stiles had been taken to surgery almost immediately, and they told him later that he’d been unconscious for two days following it, stabilizing only in the dead of night of the first day. 

When he woke up fully, it had been to find that everybody had slept there for the entirety of those 48 hours, and even though they weren’t supposed to, they all crowded into the room as soon as they were told he was awake. The countless times that he’d been the one waiting, Stiles always hated the strict family-only rule for visiting the first day but being the one in the bed for the first time he understood very quickly why it was in place. 

As much as his heart initially fluttered to see his friends again, after all, they were his family more than than they weren’t, they'd all had so many questions that he couldn’t bring himself to answer that he’d started to get overwhelmed fast. He felt guilty to be thankful when the nurse came in and angrily kicked everybody but his dad out of the room. 

He felt even worse that he really just wanted to be alone. His father had sat in the chair a few feet from the bed, and Stiles noticed that there was a bag already beside it, which he could only assume meant his dad had been staying right there the whole time. They were silent for a long while, as Stiles slowly examined his body. He had bandages almost everywhere, and casts on his left arm, and his right leg. His other leg was in a splint, along with both his thumbs and a couple of his fingers. 

The memories of how the Mastermind had broken them each in eerie uniform in front of the camera, grinning, while Stiles tried his best not to scream flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t help but shake his head to expel them. 

“Son…” his father began carefully. “I know it’s not easy but… just for the report, can you tell us anything about what happened? Who those men were? What they wanted? Or maybe what they looked like or names?” 

Stiles knew his father only meant to help, but the series of questions, even that short, brought more memories of the events flooding in, making his heart hammer in his chest. The monitor hooked to him began to beep more rapidly and his dad looked to it in concern. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” his father stammered, but Stiles cut him off. 

“Where’s Derek,” he said, in less of a genuine question and more of an attempt to calm his breathing by changing the subject. Though he had truthfully been wondering if he was alright. 

“He’s fine. He’s with Cora right now, but I think he said he’d come by soon. Do you want me to… call him, or anything?” His father asked, inching just a bit closer to Stiles. At the movement, Stiles involuntarily jumped slightly sideways. His stomach sank as he saw his father’s face instantly fall. He only shook his head as a response. 

Stiles knew his dad was doing his best to be more of a father than a sheriff, something he’d never really had an issue with doing. However, understandably, that line was more difficult to stay on one side of when this time Stiles was both his son and the victim of his ongoing police case. 

Stiles’ mind wandered back to the small string of questions his father hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking. Though Sheriff Stilinski had long-since been clued in about the supernatural going-ons of Beacon Hills, Stiles had always recognized that it was consistently his dad's last instinct to assume that information relevant to his cases. Even still, he thought he would’ve known by now at least a few of those answers. He began to wonder who it was that had been receiving the videos they’d taken of him. Not knowing caused a little gnawing ache to begin to burrow its way into his heart. 

Within the next few minutes, the nurse returned to up the dosage of whatever painkiller they had coursing into Stiles’ veins, and he was glad for it. His entire body felt like it’d been thrown over a huge cliff then promptly rolled over by a few trucks. Soon enough, his brain began to fill with what felt like a happy fog, and he couldn’t quite remember why he’d felt so awful…then almost immediately, he’d fallen back asleep. 

When he woke up a few hours later, he could still feel the effects of the heavy pain medication. He brought his hand up to look at it, and under the backlighting of the florescent in the ceiling, it almost appeared to glow. Stiles’ found this immensely entertaining, and outwardly chuckled a bit. It was enough to garner the attention of the person on the other side of the room, standing, looking out the window, that Stiles’ hadn’t previously noticed. Derek. 

Derek’s mouth turned up in the corner when he saw Stiles’ small laugh, and he strode across the room with ease to sit in the chair beside the bed. 

“How ya feelin’?” He asked though the answer was quite plain to see for himself. 

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed happily, grinning as though he’d only just noticed him. “mfeelin’great.” 

“Good to hear, you had us all a bit worried there for a minute,” Derek smiled back, figuring it best to keep things light for the moment. 

“You’re tellin’ me, Mr. ‘I got shot by wolfsbane’ Hale,” Stiles’ replied, falling into laughter at his own words. 

Derek almost couldn’t believe that Stiles even remembered that, not to mention put a bit of thought into it, especially when he himself was practically bleeding out in the car at the time. Derek already knew that Stiles had asked about him before, Stiles’ dad had told him when Derek had arrived at the hospital, but he hadn’t realized he was remotely concerned with his being shot. 

“Out of everything, that's what you remember?” Derek couldn’t help but ask, more surprised than anything else. 

For a moment, a shadow passed behind Stiles’ eyes, and a darkness carved itself into the angles of his face as his expression fell; his eyes, meeting Derek’s for only a second, displayed a dull nothing that bore into him, making him start. Though the drastic change lasted only a second before the meds took back over and Stiles’ eyes brightened and he laughed as though he hadn’t heard the question, the afterimage of that look burned itself into Derek’s consciousness. 

Coupled with how bruised up Stiles’ face was, Derek could only describe that flash he’d seen as one of a person utterly broken, and the realization of it made his heart plummet into his stomach. It wasn’t a look anybody ever wanted or should have to see on a person they cared about even a little bit, and that moment, though it passed as quickly as it came, struck Derek to the core. It was like a small window into a much larger, far more harsh reality of an all-new battle Derek knew Stiles’ would have to endure much sooner than later. 

As he watched Stiles’ toy with his heart monitor, giddily laughing a laugh that could almost be classified as a giggle, Derek felt heavy. Stiles began to pull on the cord a bit too hard, and Derek reached out his hand to stop him from yanking it off himself. More quickly than he could stop his own movement, he remembered the warning Sheriff Stilinski had told him before he’d entered Stiles’ room: don’t touch him, he can't handle it. 

When his hand inevitably connected with Stiles’ wrist, Derek was a millisecond from retracting his arm immediately and apologizing but noticed in that same tiny amount of time that Stiles’ hadn’t moved away from him at all. In fact, he simply dropped the cord and continued on with his laughing, all the while with Derek’s hand placed gently on Stiles’ bandaged skin. 

Derek’s first thought was that it had to be the medication toying with Stiles’ mind, numbing his receptors and his reactions— but he’d been on the medication while his dad was in the room, hadn’t he? Derek couldn’t be sure of practically anything, but as his eyes followed Stiles’ now-likely-to-be-rare smile, he came to two more realizations of the day. The first being that if Stiles really did inexplicably trust him in this way, Derek was going to have to help him in whatever way he could manage. The second, slightly more frightening realization being that it was becoming increasingly clear to Derek that he did in fact care for Stiles perhaps more than just a little bit… maybe even a lot more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a bit shorter, but thanks for reading! let me know what you think of how it's going, i'm always open to feedback :))


	4. Book or Bomb

In modern times, it’s a rare day that the regular teenager gets actual mail much at all, and although Scott McCall could hardly be considered a regular teenager, he was no exception to this reality. 

He got his paycheck given to him by Deaton at the end of the week, and texts and emails from most other sources that might need to contact him. The only mail he really ever got was on his birthdays and other holidays from his grandparents, and when his father hadn’t been around, from him as well.

This being said, it was considerably odd when his hearing picked up the sound of his mailbox opening nearly ten minutes to midnight. He’d been trying Stiles’ cell for almost the 30th time that day, and really trying not to panic since nobody else had heard from him either when he looked out his window to see what definitely was in no way a mailman placing something into his mailbox. 

He was out the door as quickly as he could be, making a considerable racket in his effort, but when he got to the mailbox in the front yard, whomever it was who had brought it was already nowhere to be seen. Tentatively, he opened up the squeaky metal door and found inside a small brown package. The wrapping was unmarked by any shipping or return address, nor any names, only three ominous words scrawled in bad handwriting and black marker: TO THE ALPHA. 

Scott’s ears buzzed, and his vision tunneled on those three words as he wandered back towards the front door, almost as though floating beyond his own body. So much so that he didn’t notice Isaac and his mother standing at the front door, both looking at him with sleepy confusion in their eyes. He stopped when he reached the porch. 

“You better have a pretty good explanation for knocking my pictures off the walls,” his mom said, not so much angry as exhausted. 

Scott knew these things were getting to her. Ever since being taken by the Darach and very nearly ritualistically sacrificed, and the whole ordeal with the nogitsune right after, she hadn’t quite gotten her bearings. He could hear her up most nights, walking around her room, or down in the kitchen, and he knew she spent more time worrying than not. Even though she always said that was her job to worry, not his, he couldn’t help but feel awful nonetheless. So if this was a new problem, something else good ol’ Beacon Hills was throwing at them, he figured he might as well find out what it was at least before pulling her into it. He shoved the package behind his back. 

“Sorry mom, I uhh, I heard the mailman deliver some book I ordered for school. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Scott smiled wryly. 

“A book? For school?” She looked at him through narrowed eyes. He nodded, glancing at Isaac in an attempt to order him silent. Melissa caught the look and sighed. “I don’t remotely believe you, but I’m fresh off a double shift and way too tired to be a good mom for once.”

“Aw mom, come on, you’re always good,” Scott replied, pushing past her into the house. 

She shut the door behind him, locked it, and put her hands on her hips. 

“That’s true!” Isaac put in. Scott shot him another look. 

“Just go back to bed. Now, please,” she sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“Right away,” Scott assured, grabbing hold of Isaac’s wrist and pulling him up the stairs behind him. “‘Night, mom.” 

“Scott, wait,” at her words, he paused, almost at the top of the staircase, making Isaac turn back as well. Melissa’s mouth was drawn into a tight line, almost as though she didn’t want to say what she was about to. “Have you… have you heard from Stiles? Sheriff Stilinski called me a few hours ago and he still isn’t home. You won’t get in trouble, you know, if you do know where he is and tell us. After everything that happened I just—“ 

“Mom,” Scott interrupted, “Trust me if I’d heard from him today Mr. Stilinski would’ve been the first to know about it.” 

She looked up at him for a moment, then nodded curtly. As Scott turned and continued towards his room, he could hear her in the kitchen putting a kettle on to boil. 

When the door was secured shut behind them, Isaac turned to Scott who was sitting down at his laptop on his desk, having set the package down on top of it. 

“You really haven’t heard from Stiles?” Isaac asked, sitting himself down on Scott’s bed. 

“No, man. Have you?” Scott answered, not turning to look at him as he located a pair of scissors from somewhere on the desk and examined the package before him. 

“Wish I could say I had,” Isaac replied. As he did, he sat forward a bit, peering over Scott’s shoulder. “That’s definitely not a book for school, is it.” 

“Nope. Well, it could be, but if it is then Beacon High really needs to rethink its shipping methods,” Scott said, digging the edge of the scissors into the fold at the top of the package. 

In one swift motion, he slid the scissors along the paper. He turned the package upside down and out dropped a small, black, unmarked USB drive. 

“I don’t think that’s a book,” Isaac said, now standing just behind Scott, leaning forward slightly with his hand on the back of the desk chair. 

“I’d say the same thing if we hadn’t seen books in the form of thumb drives before in the past. Remember the beastiary?” Scott said absentmindedly, having picked up the USB drive and turning it over in his fingers. It was a deep black that seemingly only reflected light off of the metallic part that was to be inserted into the computer. 

“Vaguely,” Isaac replied, “come on, plug it in already.” 

Isaac reached over Scott and opened the lid of the laptop. As the user screen popped up, Scott was about to type in his password when he hesitated. 

“I don’t know,” Scott said, slowly closing the drive in his fist. “I have a bad feeling.” 

“What? About the thumb drive?” Isaac looked to him quizzically. Though he trusted Scott implicitly, he couldn’t quite see why it wasn’t a good idea to find out what the hell was on the drive as soon as possible.

“Yeah, I mean this whole thing is kinda sketchy. What if it’s like one of those kinds from the spy movies where it has some sort of virus or… I don’t know, a bomb? Or something?” Scott questioned, simultaneously wondering if it was possible to make a concern sound valid when the majority of his source was the Spy Kids movies he and Stiles watched when they were about ten. 

Isaac looked at him for a moment, and Scott was sure he was either about to laugh in his face or call him a dumbass. Or both. 

“Actually, that’s a good point,” Isaac said finally, and Scott instantly wondered why he ever thought Isaac would have any other reaction. 

“I saw one once where there was some sort of embedded code that had a virus that made the whole computer explode.” Isaac continued and made a small explosion sound effect, accompanied by an exploding hand motion. 

“Dude! That’s what I’m talking about! I so don’t have the funds for a new computer right now,” Scott cried. 

“Alright, alright, let’s think,” Isaac reassured, clapping his hand down on Scott’s shoulder, then standing to pace behind the chair. “Do we know anyone who could like… maybe be here to stop it somehow? If it does turn out to be something with code, I mean.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think we know anyone smart enough to do that, but also dumb enough to actually come here when it’s after freaking midnight,” Scott said. 

Seconds after the words left his mouth, Isaac stopped pacing as they both met the same conclusion. They turned to each other in unison, exchanging knowing looks without the need for words. 

~~*~~ 

“You two better have a very good reason for making us drive all the way over here at one in the damn morning,” Lydia said angrily, impatiently tapping her foot when Scott opened the front door. He silently willed it not to squeak. They'd been lucky that Melissa had apparently been able to get back to sleep with a relative quickness. 

“Us?” Isaac replied, looking from Lydia’s plastered-on impatient expression to Malia’s unexpected yet identical existence on the porch. 

“We only asked for you to come, Lydia…N-not that you aren’t appreciated, Malia,” Scott stammered, opening the door wider and stepping aside to let the two girls in. 

“Yeah, right, like I’m going to come alone at the early hours of the morning to meet with two werewolf boys. Not likely,” Lydia quipped. 

“Wha… Lydia, you’re a banshee,” Scott replied in bewilderment. 

“And?” She said impassively, looking from her nails to him with her eyes narrowed. 

“What’s this about, Scott?” Malia interjected. “Did you guys find something about Stiles?” 

At this, Lydia’s expression fell to one twinged with a sudden underlying hopefulness, her eyes wide, though she masked it quickly and said nothing. Isaac looked away, scratching at the back of his neck. Scott suddenly felt awful both for having gotten their hopes up and for momentarily putting his best friend’s apparent disappearance on the back burner of his mind. 

“No, sorry, I should’ve just explained on the phone,” Scott said, unable to keep the guilt out of his voice, “It’s not about Stiles, we just maybe need your computer smarts, Lydia.” 

“‘Maybe need'? Are you kidding me? I woke up in the middle of the night and drove fifteen minutes for ‘maybe need’?? You know what, I’m going back home. Come on, Malia,” Lydia said, turning on her heel and grasping Malia by the wrist. 

Scott caught hold of Lydia’s upper arm, quickly but gently, making her whirl around and face him, truthfully more annoyed than anything else, but her features purposely chiseled into blatant stubbornness. 

“No! Wait, Lydia, can you just come up to my room and hear us out, please?” Scott implored, still gingerly grasping her arm. He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. “With Stiles somewhere out there, you weren’t sleeping anyway. Believe me, I know.” 

At this, her expression involuntarily softened. Finally, she sighed and let go of Malia’s wrist. She yanked her arm from Scott’s hand with a malice she didn’t actually possess and gave an exasperated eye roll. 

“Fine. But don’t expect me to stay awake if it gets boring,” she agreed, her voice dripping in mostly fabricated reluctance. In reality, Scott was right. She wouldn’t be sleeping anyway, and in a way, it was almost comforting to be with them all, even if she’d never admit it. The alternative was worrying alone in a big empty house. 

Once upstairs, having caught the girls up on their concerns, Scott and Isaac stood waiting unexcitedly for their feedback. It came after a pause, and at the same time from them both. 

“Makes sense.” Was Malia’s. 

“That is the single stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Was Lydia’s. 

Another pause drew between them all. 

“But I commend you for being careful, I guess,” she added, sighing. “It doesn’t matter though, we still won’t know anything until you plug the thing in.” 

“Right. Okay, uhh, let’s do that then I guess,” Scott said uncertainly. 

The same uneasy feeling was still lodged steadily between his heart and his ribs. It wasn’t even so much the relatively nonsensical bomb attempt idea, that was more just a name he had given the feeling, it was more that he somehow subconsciously couldn’t shake the notion that whatever the contents of the drive held was going to be bad. Very, very bad. 

They all crowded around Scott’s desk. Scott sat down in the chair and punched in his password. 

When the dashboard came up, he took a nervous deep breath and shakily inserted the drive into the port. They all sucked in a breath. 

Nothing happened. 

“Wow. Climactic,” Lydia said dryly. “Shall I call the bomb squad?” 

“Just hold on. This computer is like 90 years old, it’s probably just taking forever to load,” Scott replied, but hoped internally that it was all just some stupid prank to scare him a bit. 

However, just then, as if on cue, a popup notification appeared at the bottom of Scott’s screen. 

INSERTED: FOREIGN USB DRIVE  
WOULD YOU LIKE TO:  
PLAY ATTACHED MEDIA  
OPEN FILE  
EJECT  
BLOCK/DELETE

Scott moved the cursor and hovered over PLAY MEDIA, but Lydia’s hand suddenly fell over his. 

“Wait. Open the file first, so you can see if it’s a virus or not. We don’t need this ancient laptop getting even slower,” she said, shaking her head and dropping her hand away from his. 

Although she appeared calm and collected, maybe even flippant, Scott could hear her heart beating more rapidly than it had been before. Along with his and everybody else’s. 

“Fine,” he clicked OPEN FILE. 

Inside the USB file was just one folder, with no title. Scott double-clicked, his heart thundering in his chest despite his repeated attempts to quell it. Inside the folder was a single video. 

FOR THE ALPHA ONLY.mp4

All four of them sucked in their breath simultaneously. For a moment, Scott couldn’t move, and it seemed nobody else could either. Finally, it was Malia who took action. 

“Oh just click it already,” she said, jolting forward. She put her hand overtop Scott’s and clicked for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: for context's sake, i have to do a couple of chapters that don't follow a chronological order, which i realize means jumping around in time, and i really hope that's coming through. (ie. that this chapter takes place before the events described in all the previous chapters.)
> 
> i'm also realizing that this story may not follow exact cannon in terms of its timing since isaac is still living with scott but allison isn't around... but i'd say it can be assumed that it's some time between the nogitsune and the dread doctors (ig before theo and liam and all the chimeras and such). i know stiles wouldn't have been 18 yet then, but it makes me uncomfy to write underaged romantic interest age gaps. 
> 
> anyway, i'm really sorry if it's been confusing; if it has please please let me know. thanks a billion for reading! more soon!


	5. The Silence of Sunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok: some mention of blood + broken bone
> 
> sorry if this chapter comes across as super repetitive i was having trouble with vocab since im not feeling well (thesaurus is a homie)

When the small screen window popped up on Scott's screen, everything was entirely out of focus. Only vague shapes moving around in dark colors. Finally, someone neared the camera, enveloping it entirely, but still very blurry. At first, Scott had the kindling of hope that it was Stiles. That all of this was indeed a stupid prank that Stiles took a little too far. Wouldn't be the first time, when they were kids, and throughout life, he was always doing things that pushed the envelope and very nearly got him or both of them into big trouble. This just didn't feel like one of those fun-loving, bittersweet times. 

That feel proved itself warrented as the camera came into focus and Scott saw that it indeed was not Stiles, but rather someone he didn't recognize. A man, who was clean enough, with the exception of a spattering of what could only be blood strewn across his face. He had a grin that shone slightly crooked but brushed, white teeth, and could almost be construed as warm or welcoming. 

His eyes, however, held a vile malice that sent a cold shiver down Scott's spine --- but the sensation paled in comparison to what he felt when the man moved out of view to reveal the scene behind him. 

Collectively, the four teens huddled anxiously around the laptop felt the world careen to a standstill; their insides filled with a heavy nothing and an unbearable frenzy somehow simultaneously. 

With the unknown man off-screen, there was mostly what appeared to be endless darkness. But a single, high-focus beam shot across the emptiness to reveal the most gut-wrenching part of the picture before them. Stiles. Beaten and bloodied, shackled heavily to what looked to be a stone wall, he appeared to be unconscious. 

At that moment, none of them could speak. Scott least of all. It felt as though his tongue had become flypaper in his mouth, and his ears rang with shrill white noise. If someone else had spoken in that time, he wouldn't have comprehended it. Had he been only human, his current thoughts and emotions would still be hardly decipherable, but the werewolf senses stacked upon them made it a thousand times worse. His mind was like a freight train moving through molasses; it was trying to function at two hundred miles an hour but was stuck in the thick terror of disbelief.

Suddenly, the man came back into frame carrying a metal bucket and tossed the water inside swiftly over Stiles' head. As Stiles woke with a start, it seemingly had the same effect on everybody who was watching. On-screen, Stiles looked from the man to the camera. His gaze, for a long moment, appeared locked with Scott's, a steadfast determination undeniable in the shadows the light cast across his face. Though still, nobody spoke, there was a notable shift in the air that Scott knew everyone was immediately aware of--- one from stricken, stunned horror to raw, barely-bridled rage. 

Just as Scott was opening his mouth to speak, not even entirely sure what he was planning on saying, the man on screen beat him to it. 

"Mornin' sunshine," he said, setting the pail down on the ground in the small ring of light with a slight clink. Scott noted the way the man's taunting voice didn't carry, but the sound of the bucket ricocheted slightly. They were somewhere small, enclosed. "You were out pretty good there." 

Stiles finally turned away from the camera, lifting his head to look at the man. The same expression in his eyes unwavering, though he broke into a cheeky grin despite the split in his lip. 

"Sure was. And man was I having some wild dreams," Stiles quipped, and Scott's heart lept. Although he felt a sudden giddiness at hearing Stiles' recognizable sarcasm, he couldn't help but wish that for once he'd just keep his mouth shut. "Too bad you had to wake me."

"It is too bad," the man said. He paced across the circle of light to Stiles' right side, making Stiles' attention follow the movement, then crouched down beside him. "For you." 

Though he hid it well, Scott could see a hint of fear flash across Stiles' pale face. Evidently, Lydia noticed it as well and couldn't quite allow this whole thing to continue. 

"Hold on, hold on," she said, reaching over Scott and pressing the spacebar to pause the video, at the same time making everyone else jump at the sudden break of tension. 

"This is ridiculous. This is ridiculous! Are you kidding me? Who is this guy? No. No, I'm calling Sheriff Stilinski," she continued, pulling out her cellphone. 

"Wait!" Malia grabbed Lydia's wrist harshly enough that she stopped, but not enough to hurt her. 

Scott continued to stare straight ahead at the screen.

"What? Seriously, this is something for the police, Malia, not us," Lydia said, resolute in spite of the distinct waver in her voice as she shook off Malia's grip. 

"The package said 'for the alpha', we don't know what else might be on here," Malia retorted, her voice was seemingly as brazen and calculated as usual, but it also contained a hint of uncertainty and panic that it typically did not. 

"S-she's right," Isaac put in, his words fell from his lips in more of a tremble than anything else. "W-we don't know w-why it says that. Not yet." 

"That's ridiculous! What reason could there be to NOT get the police involved right now, especially when it's the sheriff's own son??" Lydia cried, rapidly growing not only in volume but in pitch. 

"That's exactly the reason," Scott said finally, making the other three turn to him. 

He turned around slowly, still not entirely feeling back in his own body. His muscles burned with how tightly he was holding his hands in fists. His knuckles glowed white, while his face accompanied them. 

"What?" Lydia asked flatly. "Scott, this is Stiles we're talking about. STILES." 

"I know!" Scott shot back, his eyes finally pulling to meet all of their expectant, inquisitory looks. "I know it's Stiles. What I don't know is what's going to happen on the rest of this video. But I know it's going to be bad. In fact, it's going to be really, really bad. Like, awful. There's no way it's not. But... Lydia, I'm sorry, Malia and Isaac are right. There must be some reason it said it's for my eyes only. We should at least watch till the end to find out, and then consider what's next." 

Scott hated himself for saying it. For being so logical, so calculated. Remaining calm somehow when he really wanted to scream and yell and break things and call every person they knew immediately. She was right, this was Stiles. Stiles who he'd watched movies with in their pajamas, who he'd camped out in the back yard with, who he'd listened to talk for hours about Lydia, who he'd cried to when his father left after every visit. Stiles who, if the situation was reversed, would call in the cavalry and be out in the woods right now looking for him. He hated himself, but a part of him was nagging that things would somehow be worse, way worse if he did just that. 

"A-are you kidding me, Scott? Mr. Stilinski is the Sheriff. You do realize that gives him particular means and some serious motive to go out and find Stiles way before we could, right? Come on, Scott! Be smart!" Lydia retorted angrily, her phone clutched in her hand as she stalked a few steps closer to Scott's chair. 

"Lydia!" Scott shouted, standing up out of his chair, his eyes blazing red.

Isaac and Malia shrank back. Lydia flinched slightly and lowered her phone, but her jaw was set, her righteously stubborn gaze unfaltering. Scott could hear her heart hammering in her chest, and forced himself to relax. She's just as afraid as he is, he willed himself to remember as he unclenched his fists. He lowered his voice and spoke in his best attempt at a calm tone. 

"I know what's at stake here, Lydia, and it's exactly why I'm agreeing with Malia and Isaac. Listen. What if we call Sheriff Stilinski like you want. Say he has more manpower and finds Stiles way faster than we could. Then great, awesome, we all go home. But what if we unknowingly send him in with only half the information, huh? Since we jumped the gun and never finished this insane video, and the half we're missing is the important one. Say he finds Stiles then, but instead we just sent in a father to find his son's body. Okay? Did you think about that? Because that's not a risk I'm willing to take," Scott finished with a sharp exhale.

His hands were shaking. Not from anger, but from the pure adrenaline of blurting aloud the biggest underlying fear in everyone's mind regarding the ending of the video. The proof of this fact was the palpable silence that followed Scott's proclamation. Nobody had wanted to allow themselves to think it, let alone say it because there was no way anyone could even begin to prepare for it. 

"S-so we keep watching," Isaac said finally. Everyone looked to Lydia. 

As she shifted her gaze between the three of them, her resolute expression slowly cracked. Her jaw loosened and her eyes began to well, seemingly against her every will. 

"No," she replied, her voice thread-bare. "I can't. You go ahead, but I--I can't do it." 

Scott took a small step toward her. He felt the emotion she did, if not solely from within himself, emitted from her too as he grew closer. Pain, fear, sorrow, terror, anxiety, panic, all wrapped unevenly in a package of bundled adrenaline. It was all so strong, as he reached out he could almost touch it, but instead, all he came into contact with was her shoulder. She shrugged it off immediately. 

"I-I know," Scott started, but it seemed wrong. He began again. "Well, I don't. I don't know anything for sure, Lydia. I won't pretend to. But I think, right now, if we all stick together in this room, it'll be that much easier for all of us to get through whatever it is that video contains. Okay?" 

She looked at him briefly, critically, as one might when considering a risky offer. Finally, she swiped her hands across her cheeks, though he hadn't seen them there must've been tears there, and nodded curtly, yet reluctantly. 

"Alright," Scott said, less of an agreement than an affirmation. 

He turned and took the few steps back to his chair and subsequent laptop. Isaac and Malia followed, falling in at his left and right. Lydia went and sat down on his bed, craning her neck only slightly to see around Isaac. Scott took a deep breath and hit the space bar in one swift movement. 

~~*~~

After about a minute and a half of nauseating back and forth; consisting of the man saying "tell me" with no explanation, Stiles retorting with something nonsensical and sarcastic, and then promptly getting either hit in the face or kicked in the gut; Scott, Isaac, Malia, and especially Lydia were just about at the end of their ropes. 

They'd tried not to skip forward so as not to miss anything potentially important, but were starting to think that'd been a big mistake. Scott felt genuinely sick to his stomach, and judging by the harsh scent of illness in the room, he figured he wasn't the only one. None of them had stopped flinching every time Stiles was hit, Scott could feel as much by Malia and Isaac at his sides. 

Scott was about to propose just watching the video on silent because perhaps that'd be just a little better when finally the first piece of important information was provided. 

The man hit Stiles particularly hard across the cheek, and when Stiles whipped his head back up, he shouted, "I'll never tell you their names, you bitch!" 

At this, the man stopped and smirked. He walked away, out of the ring of light for a moment. During this brief interval, Stiles let his head drop, and Scott's stomach went with it. He slammed the space bar and rushed to the bathroom. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and emptied whatever he'd eaten that day into it. Then he stood, flushed, rinsed water in his mouth from the sink, sat heavily back down in his desk chair, and weakly pressed the key again without looking up at the others. 

The man sauntered back into the light, cleaning his knuckles with a stained, white kerchief. He knelt down next to Stiles and gripped his jaw with one hand, and began dabbing at the blood dripping down Stiles' face with the same kerchief. Stiles winced and pulled against the man's apparent iron grip. 

"That's unsanitary," Stiles spat through clenched teeth.

The man stopped, his face contorting into a mockingly exaggerated frown.

"And that's ungrateful," he replied, the sickening grin returning to his face as he jostled Stiles' jaw that was still in his grasp, making Stiles wince again. "Well in any case, now that you've babbled a bit of what's going on here, mind explaining a little more to our friend, the camera?" 

He let go of Stiles' face with a harsh toss and stood up. He continued to clean at his knuckles, while Stiles glowered up at him. After a second, the man glanced down at him. Upon seeing his insipid expression, the man rolled his eyes and swiftly kicked Stiles with incredible force in the lower leg. At this, Stiles let out a heart-shattering yowl of pain. 

Scott wasn't sure how he hasn't noticed it before, but Stiles' leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, that most certainly was a break. Scott had had the same break in the past and remembered the pain of it as though a phantom that would never entirely go away, but Stiles couldn't heal the way that Scott could. Somehow this man knew that, had known that before. That must've been one of the ways he managed to get Stiles to wherever it was he'd taken him. 

"That wasn't really a request, you know," the man said with an indescribably sinister flippantness to his voice. "Get explaining." 

Stiles' head rolled in pain, and his breathing had grown heavy. With some force Scott couldn't comprehend, Stiles lifted his head to meet eyelines with the camera. Once again, it appeared as though he was looking right at Scott, and somehow that flicker of determination and resolve was still there, though it'd dimmed significantly since only a few minutes ago. 

"Alpha," Stiles began, and Scott was immediately struck by his usage of the word. 

Stiles would never call him 'alpha' in any realm other than a mocking one. Though he took the pack seriously, he was still the only one that had known Scott before any of it existed. He'd never call Scott that not out of spite, but rather simply out of familiarity, and the lack of it now was chilling to the bone.

"This man is a hunter. His friends are hunters. And not the kind we've gotten used to, either. They're the old, nasty kind. How the Argents used to be. And trust me, there's a lot of them. And uh, they grabbed me 'cause they...they want the names of everyone in the pack," Stiles said, his voice falling quieter towards the end of the sentence. The man was still smirking. Stiles glanced up at him with only his eyes, then lurched suddenly forward, pulling the chains shackling him taught. "But I won't give 'em to them. I won't, and you don't either! Not for me, okay? There's too many, promise me you won't--" 

His hurried words were cut short by the man punching him hard across the face, making Stiles' head loll to the side, then fall forwards, his eyes shut. 

Scott could've sworn that in that moment his heart stopped. Everyone else made various expressions of surprise, but he could hear nothing outside of the sound of the chains lightly rattling as Stiles' body hang limp against them.

"Well, that's enough of that," the man said

He brushed his hands together as though he'd just finished a rock climb rather than just knocked out Scott's best friend in one hit. He stepped away from Stiles, over his legs, and towards the camera. As the initial shock began to wear off, Scott felt as though his blood was starting to boil beneath his skin while the man began to talk again. 

"Your boy got it mostly right, Scott," he continued, situating the focus to be clear on his face as he crouched in front of the camera. At the drop of the name that Stiles had clearly been trying to conceal, Scott could feel his eyes glow, and his claws begin to grow from his nailbeds. 

"I am a hunter, yes, and I do have quite a lot of friends. It's also true that we're quite good at our job--nay--our duty. Although I may contest the 'old and nasty' sentiment. Whatever, be that as it may," the man continued casualty, as though speaking of nothing more than potential dinner plans. "Stiles here was only partly right about what I want. While yes, I do want the names of those in your pack, I think you've begun to realize I already know most of those. Isaac, Lydia, Derek Hale, etcetera, etcetera. Impressive, by the way, Mr. McCall, the sheer number you've amassed all while having not taken a beta. Commendable, almost, were you not... You know... What you are. Anyway, as you've guessed by now, we aren't from Beacon Hills, but we've heard quite a lot about it, and what exactly it actually is. An ACTUAL beacon for supernatural activity that you've seemed to have conveniently activated pretty recently. Guess it's just a perk that there's to be plenty more of your otherworldly type running around, huh? I don't think so. So listen up. I want ALL the names. That's right, not just of your little pack, but of every supernatural little heathen that currently or soon will occupy this adorable little town of yours. Sound good? Great! I'll be in touch with a 'mailing address' of sorts. I look forward to hearing from you, 'Alpha'." 

After giving sufficient air-quotes around the word "Alpha", the man stood as if he were about to shut off the camera. Before Scott could even have a thought, though, he dropped back down into view again. 

"Oh and Scott, don't think I didn't do my research. I know exactly who this kid's dad is. And who your mom and dad are, too, for that matter. So, suffice to say, if I see any cops, or FBI, or, hell, any nurses snooping around anywhere near me or my operation-- which I believe I mentioned is pretty extensive-- I think you have a good enough brain in that head of yours to guess what will happen to poor, defenseless, little Stiles Stilinski," he said, grinning even wider, he moved the camera to include Stiles in frame. Stiles was awake, just barely, and staring daggers into the man. He snorted a dry, emotionless laugh. "Oh oops, looks like someone heard that. How sad. Well, hope to hear from you soon, Scott, or you can be expecting another video quite like this... But not quite so friendly." 

The video ended with a click. For only a second there was utter, splitting silence. Then a sudden POP and Scott looked down to see that the USB drive that was plugged into his computer had begun to smoke. He didn't move. Isaac rushed forward and yanked the drive from the computer. Scott heard him throw it into the bathtub. Then what sounded like a small firework followed by a yelp from Isaac and the rushing water of the shower. Scott didn't move. Malia went to Lydia and put her hand over Lydia's, who in turn placed her other hand over Malia's. Isaac returned from the bathroom and distantly Scott heard him saying that the drive was a bomb after all. He then heard Malia say his name from very far away. Then Lydia's approaching footsteps across the floor, and her voice rang in his ear, but he didn't comprehend what she said. 

Instead, he stayed sitting, frozen, completely still. His body numb, his head numb, and his life-- utterly numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! sorry this update took so long i wasnt feeling super well and also this chapter was kinda hard to write lol. both bc of content and bc i typed it on my phone at like 4am haha. pls lemme know what you think! i love to hear it ❤


	6. Desolation Sans Geniality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry this has taken so long. i moved into college and for a little while it wasn't going very well and I didn't have a whole lot of motivation to write. I know this chapter is kind of weak for having been so long awaited but i hope you guys still enjoy it and aren't upset at me! i'll do my best to post more often.

It was two whole weeks before Stiles permitted any visitors. Being 18, he was allowed to refuse even his own father, even if it meant contradicting his primary nurse who advised him otherwise. 

“It’s good to be around family.”

“It’ll help you heal faster.”

“Stiles, a huge part of recovery from something like you’ve experienced is emotional support! 

“I’ve never seen a case where having someone at your bedside didn’t help!” 

Even with encouragements chirping in his ear nearly every day like a rooster that rises with the sun, he still rebuffed all those who asked the front desk for permittance to his room number. He simply wiped clean his visitor list the first day he was conscious while his father went home for a change of clothes, and left it that way. 

In those days, at least physically, Stiles made strides in healing. He, partly against his will, was dragged into physical therapy every other day, and the doctor who’d been treating him informed him that he was healing exactly how they would hope to see.

While it would seem logical that knowing his wounds were healing would make him feel a little better, or at least be in better spirits, it, in fact, had quite the opposite effect. Although Stiles couldn’t quite put it into words himself, the fact that his own body seemed keen to move on from everything, likely in line with all those around him, was sending him spiraling down.

People see physical pain. People understand and can fix physical pain. When his physical pain was no longer there, everybody else would consider him healed, even if he’s far, far, from it. Even if his internal organs had secretly and invisibly replaced themselves with an omnipresent, sickening nothingness. Even if his heart was made of ash, and his stomach bricks. Even if the injuries he’d truly sustained didn’t appear on the tests. 

As his pain med prescription decreased, so did his will to interact with those around him. He stopped speaking to the nurse who cared for him, he stopped responding to the doctor when he came in for general check-in, and stopped requesting one type of food or another, rarely eating what was in front of him anyways. 

It went on like this for fourteen days in a row. His main nurse and doctor continued speaking to him as though it was business as usual, despite receiving no response. He thought this odd, until one day the nurse left the door open on accident. He saw her walk out of the room as she always did, steady as a board, with a skip in her step, but once she had crossed the threshold of his room, she collapsed into the arms of another nurse. Her clipboard rattled to the ground and he saw her begin to cry. 

Stiles knew he should feel his stomach drop or twist, or his heart ache with the twinge of guilt at having caused somebody who only wanted to care for him pain; but instead, even with his eyes wide, and that thought in his head, inside, he still only felt the pressure of dark emptiness. 

Until he saw the face of the other nurse who’d caught her. Steady and even, but set in an expression only a mother can have: one of worry and determination simultaneously.

Melissa McCall.

For the first time in more than two weeks, he felt his heart seemingly pick up a definable piece of itself from the rubble.

~~*~~

When she walked over to him, he truly thought, in a fleeting moment, that she was going to slap him. The look on her face was enough to, for a split second, convince him of it. Instead, she strode into the room, shut the door behind her, and stopped abruptly at his bedside. 

For an extended amount of time, that honestly couldn’t have exceeded more than fifteen seconds but appeared to last a century, she simply stood there looking at him. Finally, in such a swift movement it startled Stiles, she carried herself around to the other side of the bed and began taking down his vitals on the clipboard he hadn’t noticed she’d taken from his usual nurse. His eyes trailed her. 

His mind was a jumble of thoughts. Was she going to speak? Was she for some reason angry? Had he disappointed her? Had she been working here all this time? Why hadn’t he seen her? Why hadn’t she wanted to see him?

Finally, she stopped jotting things down on the clipboard and looked over at him again. Then to the door. Then she sank into the chair behind her. With the clipboard firmly in her lap, she continued to just look at him. He couldn’t meet her eyes, but through a series of glances, he could tell that she was unwavering. 

After likely a few minutes of utter, slicing silence had passed, albeit not uncomfortably, Stiles couldn’t stand the whirlwind of thoughts any longer. When he opened his mouth to speak, his tongue felt heavy from nonuse. 

“Are—,” his voice cracked from so long without using his vocal cords. “Are you gonna just stare at me?” 

“Do you want me to just stare at you?” She retorted, answering his question with a question. 

“Not really,” he answered. 

“Well, I wasn’t going to start a conversation with someone who wasn’t going to reply, but now that you will, I suppose that changes things,” she stood for a moment and pulled the chair closer to his bed, before flopping back down into it. 

Another moment of silence passed. 

“Wh—why haven’t you visited before?” Stiles finally asked, despite it not being nearly the only question at the forefront of his brain. 

“I did,” she replied. “But you were mostly unconscious. When you were awake, they wouldn’t let me. They said it’d ‘upset you’. Technically, I’m not supposed to be in here now, so shh,” she said, smirking slightly and holding a finger up to her lips, but glancing towards the flimsy curtains over the window to the hallway all the same. 

Almost involuntarily, his eyes followed hers, then met back again before he glanced back down at his hands, slumping back against the cushions. Truthfully, he didn’t know what else to say to her. Though his mind was alight with questions, and for the first time in a long time he could consciously feel the pulse of his heart in his wrists and the tremble in his hands, the nurses that had told her not to speak to him may have been at least partially correct. Or perhaps, it was just the sensation of emotion that he wasn’t quite ready to allow; because if he did, perhaps he’d never be able to block it out again. 

“Was I wrong to come in here?” She questioned tentatively, her voice, softened and only slightly above a whisper hardly even broke the quiet. 

“No,” the word tumbled from his lips without prompting from his brain. It was an instinctual reply, his inherent need to not upset those he cared for. He wasn’t sure if it was true, although it very well could be just as much as it couldn’t. “I don’t know.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” Her voice was like a poisoned marshmallow, he knew it should be soft and soothing but something in the way she spoke was the exact tone he hadn’t wanted to hear. It made the backs of his eyes burn and his tongue press hard against his bottom teeth, squaring his jaw. 

She saw this, and every instinct within her knew that she was broaching this wrong. In not wanting to break him, she’d started to make him crack. When she spoke again, it was with a stiffened conviction. 

“Alright, Stiles, look. I know that you need your time and that you need your space, and that's fine, you're supposed to," He didn't look at her. "Everyone at home is worried about you, yes, but to an extent, you shouldn’t concern yourself with that... However, I can’t, and I won’t, just sit here and watch you disappear from us. Not again,” she felt a tremble threaten her voice but steeled herself against it. “Not when this time, there’s something I can actually do.” 

He forced himself to look up at her, his jaw still set, but his eyes, with dark circles clouding them, though uncertain, seemed almost grateful. Or, if nothing else, more accepting. 

“What can you do?” He spoke, his voice horse, ever tired. 

“Stiles, tomorrow morning, the first person who walks through that door asking to see you, I’m letting them up. Alright? Can you handle that?” Melissa leaned an inch closer, to search his face of hidden answers, and he flinched away. For a moment, his breathing quickened, and she quickly recoiled back. 

In that second, she was sure she had gravely misinterpreted what he needed, and how to handle this. She was a millisecond from apologizing and revoking her statement when he looked at her again. She saw that his eyes had pooled, and a single sedentary tear had leaked onto his cheek. Nevertheless, he nodded, and that was all she needed as confirmation. 

Though her heart was shattered to pieces not to follow the impulse to pull him into her arms and hold him, she instead simply nodded back. She collected the clipboard from her lap and stood, the chair scraping as she pushed it back. 

With the only sound in the room the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, she walked around the foot of the bed and opened the door. She took a single look back into the fluorescent-lit room, and upon seeing Stiles there, now from a distance away, her lungs caught; she could only see the destroyed twelve-year-old kid who used to sleepover at her house not too long after his mother’s death. No tears any longer, just a blanked, somber stare at an unseeable distance. She pulled her gaze away and stepped out of the room. 

She’d only just shut the door in time for her legs to give out underneath her.


End file.
